Dead Ukemochi, lying delicious and putrid, serenity imprinted on her
ancient face, she remembers: the filled eyes, the served food, the risk of the
wet newborn mouth, that from the detachment of oneself, the interior
profusion to make the other live, to live in him, to offer oneself,
one must surrender in vulnerable matter; the emptied eyes, the surprise of
rejection, that must always die when what is inside comes out. In her
fecund lethargy, she cries the salty seas.